TOO LATE, BILLONAIRE

The Coldest Meal

The rain had tapered off into a miserable mist by the time Aurora returned to the Drakos mansion. The estate loomed against the jagged Manhattan skyline, a monolith of limestone and glass. Bathed in golden exterior lights, it looked less like a home and more like a high-end museum.

Beautiful. Expensive. Empty.

Aurora stepped inside, the rhythmic click of her heels echoing like a hollow heartbeat against the polished marble. The staff greeted her with practiced, polite nods before retreating back into the shadows of the massive house.

No laughter. No warmth. Just a silence so thick it felt heavy in her lungs.

She stood alone in the cavernous entrance hall for a long moment. Slowly, she reached into her purse and pulled out the pregnancy test one more time.

Positive.

Two pink lines that felt like a secret universe.

Maybe it was just bad timing, she tried to tell herself, her chest tightening. Maybe the woman at the office was just a client. Maybe he really was buried in meetings.

She closed her eyes, fighting the insecurity that had been eating her alive for two years. She refused to give up. Not yet. Helena had once told her something she clung to like a lifeline: “Evander was not raised to express love properly. But there is still a heart inside that boy.”

God help her, she still wanted to believe there was a heart beneath that ice-cold exterior. Tonight would be her final stand. If nothing changed tonight… then she would stop lying to herself. Determination replaced the ache in her ribs. Aurora bypassed the dining hall and headed straight for the kitchen. The professional chefs moved to assist her immediately, but she shook her head with a soft, tired smile.

“No,” she said. “I’ll cook tonight.”

Surprise rippled through the staff. Mrs. Drakos rarely stepped foot in the kitchen, but tonight, Aurora needed something visceral. Something human.

She didn't prepare the gourmet, Michelin-star dishes the house was used to. Instead, she made comfort—the kind she remembered from the greasy diners and neighborhood cafés of her youth.

Creamy pasta. Roasted garlic bread. Steak seasoned with fresh herbs. A rich chocolate cake.

Things that felt like home.

As she worked, she let herself fantasize. She imagined Vander walking through the door and pausing, caught off guard by the scent of real food. She imagined him sitting across from her. She imagined, just for once, acting like a normal husband and wife.

We’re having a baby, she practiced the words in her head, her heart fluttering.

But hours bled into one another. The food grew cold. Aurora reheated it once. Twice. Three times. By eleven o’clock, the mansion had become a tomb. The staff had retired to their quarters. The candles on the dining table burned low, their flames dancing to the faint, haunting jazz playing in the background.

Aurora checked her phone.

Nothing. No text. No call. No apology.

Still, she waited.

Midnight passed. Then one in the morning. Outside, the city lights blurred behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. Aurora sat at the impossibly long table, wearing a cream-colored silk dress—the only thing Vander had ever complimented. “That looks nice on you,” he’d muttered months ago, and like a fool, she’d cherished those five words.

Her eyes burned. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he’s still at the office.

The low rumble of a car approaching made her bolt upright. Hope flooded her chest so fast it was agonizing. She smoothed her dress, her breath hitching as she rushed toward the foyer. But it was only the head of security. His expression shifted into something awkward, almost pitying, when he saw her standing there.

“Mrs. Drakos…” Aurora’s smile died.

“The boss called,” the guard said, refusing to meet her eyes. “He won’t be returning tonight.” The words were a blade, driven straight through her heart. Aurora stared at him, her world tilting.

“He said not to wait up.” Not to wait up. As if she were a pathetic dog waiting for scraps of affection.

The humiliation was a physical weight in her throat. She forced herself to nod, her dignity held together by a fraying thread. “I understand.” The guard retreated, leaving her in the deafening silence of the hall. For a few seconds, she just stood there, staring at the shadows. Then, her shoulders finally collapsed. The hope she had guarded all day didn't just break—it shattered into dust.

A jagged, broken breath escaped her. She walked back to the dining room. The candles had melted into wax puddles. The food sat untouched.

Cold. Just like her marriage.

She sat back down, the emptiness of the room mocking her. A single tear tracked down her cheek, followed by another. She didn't sob; she just leaked grief into the hollow air of the mansion. It was the kind of heartbreak that didn't scream—it just destroyed you from the inside out.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Aurora folded her arms on the table and rested her head beside the cold plates, falling into a fitful sleep while waiting for a husband who was never coming home.

Morning sunlight filtered weakly through the windows, gray and unforgiving. Aurora opened her eyes, her neck aching and her body stiff. For a fleeting second, she forgot. Then reality crashed back down. The empty chair. The congealed food. The untouched wine.

The mansion was silent. Too silent. She stood up, her gaze darting toward the grand staircase.

Nothing.

A maid entered the room, freezing at the sight of her. “Mrs. Drakos…” she whispered, her voice laced with concern. Aurora straightened immediately, pulling her tattered pride around her like a cloak. “Did Mr. Drakos come home?” The maid hesitated. That split-second of silence was the only answer Aurora needed.

“No, ma’am.”